Dust Eva Everson (story reading txt) 📖

clouding the pattern and threatening to give my feelings away—he set his cup of coffee on the nearby stove and moved to me. Pulled the plate from my hand, placed it back in the drainer, and slid his arms around my hips, drawing them to his. “It’s going to happen,” he said, having read my thoughts in a way only he could.

The dam broke. “I know,” I whispered through the sobs I deliberately kept silent. Michelle sat alone in the living room watching television and playing with her toys; I didn’t want her to hear my cries. To leave her perfect little world for my torn one. “But when?”

Westley drew back, smiling. “How about nine months from tonight?”

I slapped his arm, now smiling myself. “You know what the doctor said. We have to wait a little while longer.”

His brow rose. “But can we practice?”

I stepped away from him. “Stop,” I half-teased before throwing the dishtowel over the remainder of the dishes that, I figured, could keep till morning. I reached for my ever-present composition book with the pen shoved into the metal coil that held it together. “I’ve got to get Michelle’s bathwater ready.”

Westley’s fingers found my upper arm and squeezed. “I’ll do it,” he said. “I can do it.”

I looked at him, studying him. He’d had a haircut recently, which had whacked away at many of the curls I so loved to weave my fingers through. His face bore the tan that never seemed to fade. His eyes the same soft and gentle nature that had drawn me to him in the first place. I smiled. Briefly. “No,” I said. “It’s my job. I’ll do it.”

I woke early the next morning, shuffled into the kitchen aware of an early-autumn chill that had seeped into the house. After starting the coffee, I went into the dining room, flipped on the light, and then sat at the table where my notebook waited. A yawn found its way through me. I gave in to it, blinking back the moisture it brought to my eyes as I flipped pages until I came to a new sheet. I scribbled the date across the top, followed by placing a #1 in the left-hand margin.

Put coffee on …

I then placed a checkmark next to the words, which brought an instant sense of satisfaction and a smile.

By the time I’d completed the list, which included Start planning Michelle’s b-day party, the coffee had gurgled its last perk and I was enjoying my first cup while placing numbers based on the order of importance next to each assignment. As I wrote #3 next to Start a load of whites, Westley walked around the corner from the living room. “Morning,” he mumbled.

I lifted my face for a kiss, which he gave. “Coffee’s ready.”

He strolled into the kitchen, prepared his drink, then returned to lean over my shoulder. To read over what would constitute my day. “Michelle’s party … You already thinking about that?”

I glanced up, noting the stubble of his beard. “Why wait? Especially with DiAnn …” Both my sister and my sister-in-law were expecting now—DiAnn’s baby due on Michelle’s birthday, which had made for a lot of family joking—We can just celebrate them together—but a hindrance when it came to planning our little girl’s third birthday party.

Westley pulled a chair from under the dining room table and lowered himself into it. “Has Miss Justine said anything to you about DiAnn’s baby shower?”

I shook my head, then jotted a note at the bottom of my list. “I’ll talk to her about that today.” I shrugged one shoulder. “I mean, she mentioned it, but …” But, she hadn’t said too much, knowing how fragile I had been over the past few weeks since the last miscarriage. She’d been one of the select who’d even known I was expecting again. She and Westley and Julie and me. Only the four of us.

Well, possibly Dean. If my sister had told her husband, she hadn’t mentioned it.

Westley stood. “I’m jumping in the shower.”

“Okay,” I said, looking up. Forcing a smile.

He kissed the top of my head. “It will happen, Ali.”

I nodded, keeping my eyes downcast, the words on my list blurring as all logic left my brain. Which it always did when I thought about the two babies I’d not been able to “grow” to full term.

I’d lost the first baby on Paul and DiAnn’s boat—a boat I refused to ever get on again. Illogical, I knew, but I didn’t care. Not that it stopped Westley from going out with his brother and sister-in-law and Michelle every chance he got, leaving me sitting at the dock to read whatever book I currently immersed myself in. Or inside the house “starting dinner.”

The second baby had been lost at home while napping with Michelle, my arms tucked around her, my body curled like an “S” around hers. After a trip to the hospital where a D and C was performed, the doctor warned Westley and me strongly that we shouldn’t “do anything” for several months that could lead to another pregnancy. “Give her body a chance to rest,” he said. “To heal.”

“How long are we talking about … exactly?” I had asked, not wanting to waste a single second.

“Six months would be my recommendation. Especially in cases like yours, Mrs. Houser, where the second pregnancy resulted in a second miscarriage.”

Six months. I’d marked February 15, 1980 on the calendar with a big heart drawn with one of Michelle’s red crayons, then began counting down by months, weeks, and then days. Six months. Approximately twenty-seven weeks. One hundred and eighty-three days.

And only a month and a half had managed to snail by. Only six weeks. Only forty-two days.

“Wait till you see what the cat drug up to the house,” Ro-Bay said from Miss Justine’s front porch. She stood there, a broom in one hand, the other fisted and planted between the folds of flesh at the hip. I had a notion she’d